The Daily Life of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson
by beesandjam13
Summary: John and Sherlock's typical life in the flat including trivial arguments, sloppy kisses, blurry drunkness, and much more. (John/Sherlock)
1. Chapter 1: A Walk Through Troubles

**Author's Note:** These little dabbles come from my John and Sherlock Q&A blog, obviouslydeduced (on tumblr), so the plot will be better understood after visiting the website. The lengths of the uploads will very, but I can promise you that most will be short. They are spur-of-the-moment fiction whims that I process when I can, but I thank you warmly for reading them. And now I present to you: A Walk Through Troubles!

* * *

Sherlock had been on countless walks in his life; afternoon strolls as a toddler with big brother Mycroft and mummy, ambles in the spring durning secondary school to regain his self-awareness (also to contemplate the reported evidence of recent murders), and many trudges- typically in wicked rain- to scrutinize if it were time to reveal his breathing self to John after he faked his death. All without being realized by the violinist were important walks. Though sawing through his instrument was an obvious indignation to continuos thinking, Sherlock reacted positively to traveling around a designated area- especially with a chosen companion.

John wouldn't call himself cross with Sherlock's recent behavior, but it was irritating him more that usual.

There had been an odd lack of cases in the previous weeks and it seeped through the consulting detective like heat on snow fall. As a consequence, John was coming close to his boundaries with patience. He wished dearly to help Sherlock, but his ideas were slowly fading away. The doctor was lucky for one decent thought that would strike Sherlock's mind.

So there the two men were, one striding, the other attempting persistently to catch up from behind, walking through their nearby park. John's fingers were kept twisted around each other (while in his pockets- he didn't need to upset Sherlock) in hope for luck that his last strive to keep the violinist entertained would not prove futile.

"Explain the conclusion to your recent experiment," John stated, while finally matching his flatmate's quick pace.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly- his eagerness breaking through the stoic mask he owned- and the selected side of his mouth was pulled taut into a slight smirk. "Well, with only examining the fingers, I realized that Molly's trite assumption was incorrect. A paper cut would have never killed a man. There was dirt under the nail, which after testing, revealed that he was a cigarette addict. Though I do not currently understand why Molly couldn't see this simply regarding to his mouth, his cause of death was quite evident. Nothing too complicated."

John's chin tilted upwards, since he was incredibly short for his age and he muttered the words "Brilliant, Sherlock" while his eyes met the violinist's.

Sherlock's eyebrows pressed into a line. "Oh, it was nothing."

"No, it is. You're very talented," John assured, bestowing a flick of a nod to the other consulting detective before placing his eyes back onto the ground.

A very brief and faint snort was released of of Sherlock's mouth. "Really?"

John smiled, his fingers unlocking themselves from each other. "I'm positive," he chuckled amusingly, glancing upwards for another brief moment.

"Why, then," Sherlock grinned, "thank you."

"The pleasure was all mine." John babbled, grinning widely himself in return.


	2. Chapter 2: A Necessity Called Sleep

**Author's Note:** The next chapter I've scheduled should be twice as long, considering the brief length of my past uploads. Thank you for reading!

* * *

"It's not that difficult, Sherlock. Sleeping is natural."

In response, the violinist flipped his body over and grunted with a long, fulfilling sigh, which seemed to push John over the edge.

The detective's fingers slid his phone out from underneath the pillow, turned it on, and pushed his boredom away briefly- but the doctor wasn't blind.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, forcing his own frame off the bed to retrieve the phone. After he had done so, John sat on the border of the mattress nearest to the other man.

The detective swept the covers over his face, a flash of memory perking past his thoughts, reminding him that John thought he could cut fabric with his cheekbones. Sherlock snickered replying, "Give me back my phone."

"No," John remarked, "I've hidden it."

It wasn't that complicated. "Dresser, bottom right drawer. Under the grey shirt."

"You're not playing on it, even if you know where it is."

John groaned, moving over to Sherlock's side and pulling the covers away from the infamous sea green eyes and firm chin. His fingers found their way to the consulting detective's back and began swirling patterns onto the cotton. It always did seem to relax Sherlock.

After a few moments, Sherlock mumbled a practically incoherent "Thank you" into his sheets.

John nodded as he realized the violinist was drifting off and made himself more comfortable within the blankets, netting his body beside Sherlock's. In the end, John decided, it _wasn't_ difficult for the detective to sleep. It _was_ strenuous for Sherlock to let go, giving up all his worries and leaving his so called "mind palace".

John let himself wonder how the palace visually materialized. Were there curtains or blinds? Blue accents or brown? Carpet or wooden flooring? Knowing Sherlock, John presumed that this "palace" didn't look like a place at all. Eventually, he gave up faultlessly and followed Sherlock's lead- sleeping.


	3. Chapter 3: A Task of Dreary Soberness

Somehow, though John couldn't fathom how, Sherlock consumed practically a whole bottle of wine in an hour. It was amusing, John thought, to watch his flatmate act so strangely, but it grew to a point where enough was enough and the alcohol needed to be put away and the gun needed to be hidden once more just as a precaution.

John made a swift move by sliding the bottle carefully out of the drunk man's grip. He put the cork back in and was just about to turn away when Sherlock's hand clenched on to John's wrist. Maybe this wasn't a good idea, the doctor noticed.

"Noooo," complained the violinist, dragging John back to the couch where he lay sprawled out- hair stuck to his sweaty face, body trembling, and fingers etched cold.

John looked down, his face attempting to stay within a frozen emotion, though it would never be possible. His eyes squinted down at Sherlock and his lips were strained into a slight smile. "Yes, let go or I'll through it out the window."

"Never!" cried the detective, whose legs swept out and knocked the doctor over with one swift motion.

John steadily pushed his body off of the ground and stood up. "You know," he grunted, holding the bottle behind his back, "pirates aren't supposed to be this mad when their drink is taken away."

"Aye!"

Man, he was a goner.

Quickly, John placed the wine where only a sober man could reach and returned to Sherlock. He sat next to him in the little space left vacant, swept the violinist's hair out of his eyes, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's sweaty forehead. "Let's go to bed," he mumbled.

Sherlock nodded as he entered the dreary stage of being drunk. His mouth thrashed through a drought, but he still managed to keep his attention on the doctor. "Mhmm," he slurred as a response.

It was a difficult task, but John was able to lead Sherlock to his room with hands firm on the violinist's hips. Once he tucked the detective in bed, John slid in himself. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"I love you."

John chuckled, his fingers gliding through Sherlock's hair. "Sure you do."

* * *

Once John had placed the Aspirin, two glasses of water, and a damp cloth on his bedside table, Sherlock politely asked if he would join him in bed.

"But Sherlock," John implied, one had reaching to rub the back of his neck, "I must go to work. You already made me miss a week."

It took Sherlock a minute to reply due to the headache, but he responded, "No, you chose to take the week off yourself, I did nothing. Plus, you have precisely an hour and twenty-two minutes before you even ought to leave. Sit."

John finally agreed, placing himself at the edge of the bed while Sherlock swallowed some pills. "How bad?"

"On a scale of one to ten- ten being the worse," the violinist reported, pushing his body upwards so he was sitting straight, "a five. Not nearly close to my substandard."

"How often have you been blasted?"

Sherlock swallowed, placing his hands together just in front of his mouth. The doctor watched with careful eyes as he did this, realizing that the detective didn't usually do this when recalling his own memories. "I used to visit the pub between three to seven times a week when I was 'dead'. I never consumed alcohol before that occasion, but-," he took a sip of his drink, "I suppose that I haven't dropped the habit if substances are near. By the way, you should think about moving the wine. The third shelf in the first cabinet is not the most _secure_ place."

"I made sure you didn't see me when I hid it!"

Sherlock chuckled. He did love to see ordinary minds at work. "I wasn't that drunk, John. Most of it was an act. An experiment, give or take."

The doctor became flustered. "So, your words before you dozed off weren't caused by the alcohol?"

Th violinist's hands moved away from his mouth. "I'm afraid not"

"I have to go to work."

Sherlock nodded, knowing that John still had over an hour before his departure was necessary.


	4. Chapter 4: A Meal For Thought

_**Author's Note: **__This drabble was based off of an M!A (magic anon) in which Sherlock was instructed to make a meal for John. Just a heads up, per se. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

After finishing with his violin, answering a few messages, and finishing the _very_ easy code, Sherlock practically strutted to the kitchen, glad that John asked for one of the few meals he could prepare alone.

From where he was sitting, John had a decent view of Sherlock setting up dinner and his computer screen, where he worked on the second part of the case which Sherlock had instructed him to start on. "Need help?" he called out willingly, just as Mrs. Hudson set foot into their flat.

"I can always tell he's cooking when I smell something burning," she remarked, hip balanced against the wall while she peered at the paper placed between he fingers. "There's a letter here for you, Sherlock," she called out just before he arrived to where she was in the doorway.

"Thank you," he briefly said, plucking the letter from her fatal grip and placing it loosely into the pocket of his robe, which fluttered behind him just as if he were a Royal. "By the way," he practically yelled back, though in a nice tone, "Nothing is burning. The ingredients were rotten to the core."

"Would you like to use some of mine, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, her voice louder so Sherlock could hear her over the ruckus he was creating in the kitchen.

"Garlic?" he called back while he slammed a pot harshly onto the counter.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, though mostly in intention of John, for Sherlock couldn't view her at the moment. "I'll bring it right up." She disappeared down the steps.

John shut his laptop. "You were going to blame it on me, weren't you?"

Sherlock paused his mixing of the noodles. "Hmm?" he mumbled, glancing to see John with his head resting onto of his fist casually.

"The bitter ingredients. You were going to blame it on me for not going to the store and picking more up."

His eyebrows mashed against one another. "No. I should have gotten more," he responded, turning back to the stove where he continued to stir at the pasta.

"Here it is!" Exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, who rushed through the door and placed the garlic on the counter top next to a filled beaker. Sherlock curtly nodded as John said, "Thanks."

"Not a problem at all. You boys get some rest tonight. Good luck with the pasta, dear!" And on that note, the door was closed, the pasta was cooked, and Sherlock had begun on the sauce.

John stood up and brushed off his jeans before walking to the kitchen. "What was the letter about?" he asked, grabbing two cups from the cupboard.

"Read it to me," Sherlock demanded, though it was a usual hearing for John. After the glasses were filled with water and placed on the table, he moved to where the violinist was and slid the envelope out of his pocket.

"Uh.. Mycroft says there's another murder with this case we're on. Why is he asking us for help so often?"

Sherlock disregarded the question promptly. "He's busy," he muttered to himself while pouring the sauce into the bowls of pasta,"he never sends letters with that sort of information."

The doctor sat down with a fork in hand. Forks once had scared him (food fights in training were not the _prettiest_), but the marks on his forearm slowly faded years earlier.

Sherlock met John at the table, placing the bowls where they would be sitting. "This shouldn't be complete rubbish," he mumbled quietly, stabbing the pasta with his fork and placing it in his mouth while John did the same. Sherlock wasn't exactly nervous, but he did hope greatly that John would sincerely admire his cooking.

"Sherlock," the doctor started after swallowing, "this pasta is fantastic. You _must_ cook more often."

"If I have the time," the violinist remarked, sipping from his water.

John was impressed. The two times prior to this "experiment" had failed and it was nice to see a meal come out decent from Sherlock's preparing and for the detective to consume it himself. "Wonderful," John said without a thought.


	5. Chapter 5: A Not-So-Frightening Evening

_**Author's Note: **__Here lies another M!A (John and Sherlock must watch a "horror" film.). In response to a recent review by Abbey Grimm Dawn, at this point Sherlock and John realized their relationship was more than just friends, but hadn't really established a proper name. So yes, technically Johnlock is present here, but their style of affection tends to hide it. Thanks for reading! (Trust me I don't sound this proper in rl.)_

* * *

Following the popping of popcorn and the brewing of unhappy tea, John clicked on_The House at the End of the Street _with the remote. "It's an American film," he mentioned, placing a bowl on Sherlock's lap along with a mug beside him, "and it's said to not be too scary, but realizing that you deal with murders and such daily, this shouldn't be too bad."

"I'm not frightened," stated the violinist with his normal, stoic expression as he gaze set on the television and John pressed play.

* * *

Sherlock converted to an extremely bored sense rapidly. Once twenty minutes had passed, he'd already mentioned how Ryan looked similar to the kid they'd helped out in Baskerville.

"How did you know it was him the whole time?" John questioned, glancing over to him.

"How did you not?"

"Since Carrie Anne was in the picture."

"Carrie Anne was merely a prop, it was simple."

On that note, John snapped off the screen, placed his palms firmly on the chair's arms, and forced his lips together to keep the frustration from exiting them through words.

Though the doctor didn't exactly know if Sherlock's explanation was true or not, he was fairly sure that his partner was correct.

"Great job," he muttered before his ability to contain himself much wore rotten. John strode to the kitchen swiftly.

The violinist licked his lips. "Did I-," he began, though John's pacing dialogue cut him off.

"Yes, yes you did. I just wanted to have a nice night with you, Sherlock. We didn't have a case, you weren't terribly bored, and we already had the disc. I merely wanted to enjoy myself, but no. That's not possible with 'Mr. I Deduced Every Bloody Thing I Can'."

The doctor's face was slowly whirling to a light shade of red, his fingers were clenched tight as he walked back and forth between the island and the cabinets.

Sherlock knew that there were only a few options at this point, so he chose the one he found most fitting. While John was facing the away, the violinist embraced him from behind, whispering "My apologies." in his ear.

At first, the doctor's body was gritted, but it faded when Sherlock's breath was at his neck. His fists released, inhales evened, and mouth relaxed.

John nodded while the violinist moved in front of him. "Your apologies are accepted," he muttered, cupping Sherlock's cheeks with two hands and pressing his lips against the detective's.

"I can't reason that, now can I?"

"I'm afraid not."


	6. Chapter 6: A Jest on Tuesday

_**Author's Note: **__This is also another M!A (John and Sherlock must play a "prank" on Mycroft). It's a bit out of character, but I thought I'd post it anyway. Thanks!_

_By the way, I would love to start taking short prompts in the reviews or my PM box. I can't exactly say how fast they'll get out, but I'll try my hardest. :D_

* * *

Throughout the cab ride to Mycroft's, Sherlock and John couldn't halt their repartee about the plan. It was going to be exciting and the two men knew this fact well. Although the practical joke was very foolish and trivial, Sherlock had never repaid his big (in all senses) brother for stealing his shoes as a child.

Mycroft's butler answered the door when the pair arrived. "This is the residence of Mr. Holmes," the servant stated promptly, "how may I assist you?"

"Yes, yes, we understand this is Mycroft's living space. I need to see him," said Sherlock, whose jitters were being released by scrunching his toes while they were inside his shoes.

"I will have to speak with him before-" he commenced, though Sherlock had shoved past him with John on his heels.

After two flights of stairs, three hallways to the left, one to the right, and a room was journeyed through, they arrived at where the violinist had guessed his brother's location perfectly.

"How did you get in here?" Mycroft asked, the corner of his eyes crinkled, while he stood up, fixing his suit placement as he did so.

Sherlock shot John a quick glance to reassure him of the plan, placed his hands in his pockets as if to seem casual, and sighed sarcastically. "The door was open. Where's the washroom?" he asked, though he knew the entire arrangement of the intricate and expensive flat by heart. The blueprint of it sat merely in the corner of his desk drawer.

"When you come up from the stairs, it's the second door to the right," responded the dieting man.

The violinist nodded curtly, turned, and headed for a room that wasn't quite the bathroom.

John started a conversation that would end up perceiving quite oddly. "That case you had us working on a week ago?" the doctor asked, while Mycroft responded with a muffled 'mhmm' as he sat down once more. "Well, whilst we did research on it, we stumbled upon countless websites with depictions and fictional works about ourselves as a couple. We became quite vexed. They call these happenings 'Johnlock'. Apparently, the phrase, per se, is a combination of both of our names."

During the time that John explained terms such as 'shipping', 'OTP', and 'fandom' to Mycroft while telling an utterly false story, Sherlock rushed upstairs to his brother's room and inaugurated his labor.

First, he slid off his coat- a coat that had contained all umbrellas they could possibly find and fit inside. Immediately following the violinist popping open one of them and placing them equally around the king sized mattress, he scribbled 'Harsh luck is never fun, is it Mycroft? Perhaps you ought to end carrying umbrellas with you when it's sunlit.' onto a card and placed it on the dresser. Prior to his exit, Sherlock made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Six minute later, the violinist was assembling in the cab, twenty-three left shoes somehow fitting into his coat, shooting John a text saying that he was clear.

Two minutes later the doctor glided into the seat next to Sherlock and the cab retraced their route.

One minute later and the men were tearing between their laughter.

"Oh, how I wish I could view his reaction!" cried Sherlock, body heaving up and down rhythmically with his chuckles.

"I'm sure we'll see him very soon," responded John with a immoral smirk.


	7. Chapter 7: A New Exploit

_**Author's Boring Note: **__Alllllright, you guessed it- another M!A drabble! This time they were ordered to go to an amusement park... (Not my choosing; they're out of character so it's a bit shorter x_x)_

_If you guys are awesome and review the heck out of this, I promise you a very, __**very**__ fluffy and slightly angsty upload. _

_*Special Notice* Requests/prompts would be very appreciated!_

_ONWARDS!_

* * *

Although Sherlock would never admit it, he was excited. John had once said that the violinist had trouble sorting through emotions, but Sherlock knew otherwise. Emotions, he had decided years ago, would always be present and he learned much from this. Sherlock knowledge shaped how he delt with them and who he was.

The name of the exact park had slipped from his mind (he deemed it unnecessary, though he could probably determine it just by where the cab was taking them), but John couldn't stop himself from reminiscing his trip there as a child. Sherlock quietly admired this while gazing through the car's window.

When they finally arrived, Sherlock- and John for that matter -immediately felt out of place. Teens swarmed around the entrance, talking to each other, laughing far louder that what was morally accepted as normal, and simply being outright crazy. It made Sherlock's head spin and not in the good way. Slowly, he became angered.

John wouldn't have any of it. Just from a quick glance, he could tell Sherlock was becoming frustrated; eyebrows pressed into a neat line of concentration, jaw clenched just slightly, and eye glued onto the doctor. The signs were all there and John read them out like a map.

"Don't let them bother you," he commented, his blue eyes steady on the violinist's as he looked upwards. They kept their pace even as they traveled to the ticket stand.

Once the pair had paid, Sherlock responded, "They don't." He slid the employee his entrance slip and walked through the gates with John on his heels.

"What first?" the doctor asked while a rush of enthusiasm flooded his mind at the site of the park's new attraction. The place had changed dramatically, he noted to himself, but somehow it still seemed like that magic sugar-land trapped inside his memory.

Sherlock allowed a small grin to slip past his lips. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective was smiling and John loved every sight of it. He had to keep himself from kissing the violinist right then and there, knowing Sherlock's disgust with too much PDA. "Not the rides," the detective remarked with his smirk still present.

"How about we start small," the doctor pleaded.

Sherlock groaned, "I'm not going on a children's attraction."

"I never said you had to."

And with that, the two, very serious, grown men took off into the park and enjoyed the day in each other company. John particularly was delighted on the ride home when Sherlock admitted his pleasure. They were merry and at that moment it was all they ever hoped of needing.


	8. Chapter 8: A Minded Difficulty

_**Author's Note:**__ Warning: total fluff ahead._ _Have fun._

* * *

John stood in the doorway of Sherlock's room, which was slowly becoming shared, while viewing his flatmate curled up into a ball. "Will you tell me?" he asked softly.

Sherlock's body curled tighter together, otherwise doing nothing in response._ Never_, he thought.

John rested his head on the doorframe and sighed. "Please?" he practically whined. Although these occurrences were becoming normal, the doctor couldn't analyze his prescription without knowing what was wrong.

Sherlock's response was light, very faint; John could barely hear him, but he caught the words a second after they slipped from the violist's dry mouth. "John, please leave," he whispered, fingers clutching at the covers to pull them tighter against his frame.

The soldier padded softly to the other side of the bed so he could view Sherlock better. Pale face, shivering body, and John still couldn't get his read. He flat out said it now, no need to continue analyzing something impossible. "Is there anything I could perhaps do to help?" he pleaded, arms crossed over his chest in a relaxed manner.

After a few moments, Sherlock blinked his eyes open, his gaze fixed almost drunkenly at John. As he slowly lost the ability to speak, his body pressed even tighter against itself and he bit the inside of his mouth to steady the amount of physical pain to mental.

If John only knew what Sherlock was fighting he could appreciate the strength his flatmate had even more so. He sat on the edge of the bed, making caution to give Sherlock the proper room of comfort on the mattress. "Please," he babbled, "I'll try to help." John locked his sight on Sherlock's eyes, the infamous sea greens mixing with sky blues once more. At that exact moment John stopped attempting to help- just the short connection they had gave the doctor all of his information. With a mere lover's gaze, John saw all the pain hidden in Sherlock' mind, all the demons he locked away in that godamned palace, every crowded thought as it was caged amongst others. Watson was sure his violinist would abide the prescription he was about to give.

With a quick motion, John stirred so he was adjacent to Sherlock. He slithered his arms around the detective's ribs, pressing his forehead against the other man's with thoughts of comfort. After one sought kiss was pressed unto Sherlock's temple, John stammered, "I'm sorry," though he wasn't quite sure what he was apologizing for. Was it that Sherlock had to suffer and he didn't? No, John suffered for over a year. Was it that Sherlock was so far in the negativity that John couldn't reach him? Quite possibly, yes.

While staring into the blind compassion that John was offering, Sherlock managed a simple smile that let John know his attempts were helping in some way; it was the best he could manage, the pain was taking hold of his body. Words he wished to say were knotted somewhere deep within his vocal chords but he couldn't push them out. His best was to nudge John's chin up until he could slide his head underneath. John smelled like warm tea, Sherlock realized for the first time, jam and a hint of gunpowder. Gunpowder? The last time he used his gun was a week ago. The violinist pushed the thought away; it wasn't worth deducing at the time, he'd rather let himself sink into John's embrace.

A small smile slipped from John's lips as Sherlock brought him closer, a ray of sun throughout out a wild storm. His finger's clutched onto the back detective's dressing gown as he mumbled, "It will be fine, I'll make sure of it," into Sherlock's curls.

Unable to show his appreciation, the violinist stretched out his legs and attempted speech, though it appeared as a light wail. He began chuckling to himself in frustration as some of the thoughts began to slip from their cages.

"What?" John smirked, his legs entangling with Sherlock's. He couldn't even begin to recount how many times he'd slept in that bed alone as his friend was dead. It was so nice to hold him here instead of imagining it all, the soldier noted.

Sherlock moved so he could see John's face again and trailed his lips along the doctor's jaw, finally able to say, "I love you." The detective decided that it was better than any 'Thank you'.

John grinned as his fingers tangled in Sherlock's curls, messing them up just slightly. "I love you too," he hummed with delight.


	9. Chapter 9: An Attempt of Salvage

The spot next to John had run cold, but that wasn't his first clue.

The door has been opened, though that only helped.

John had woken with a slight daze, his fingers clutching towards his right to find that now-familar, long, lanky frame although nothing but cold sheets and an oddly placed pillow greeted him. He forced open his eyes, becoming slightly angered by the brightness of Sherlock's clock and it's welcome of a _very_ new day (3:42 was downright glum for people with the possibility of work in the coming hours). In the background of all this, he could hear the faintness of a violin and it was only a matter of seconds for his sleep driven mind to realize it all.

Nightmare. Sherlock. Violin. Must. Help.

Groggily, the doctor slid his leg out from under the covers and forced himself off of the bed. Once that was accomplished, he somehow maneuvered his way through the kitchen and to the sitting room. Sherlock was perched near the window, hand sliding back and forth with his instrument, body pacing with the rhythm and causing his robe to flutter behind him with his every movement. It was then when John decided all his actions were worth it. Even if this sight may have caused him rage in the past, seeing it now brought a slight smile to his loose lips. He softly padded to the chair nearest the violinist and the windows, but he didn't dare sit down, only merely allowed his eyes to unfortunately blink back his dreariness.

Sherlock took notice of his blogger as soon as he stepped out from his room, for the window reflected the light created inside the flat. The detective was silent though, watching John attempt to stay awake in thoughts of his struggle. _How sentimental, _was his initial, subconscious, violin seeking thought. _I must repay him,_ was his second and it ripped the notes out of the instrument due to lack of concentration.

John bolted awake- he'd already begun to drift off while admiring Sherlock's music. "Something wrong?" asked the detective, whom was now placing his violin on the table and making a quick check of their combined personal blog. A few new followers, many scattered likes, and an ask, but he would save that for a later time.

The soldier's response was frankly muddled. "Hmm? Oh, yes…ah..what….was your nightmare of..tonight?" Without noticing it, he began swaying, his aching body already drifting back to sleep.

_The poor man, _Sherlock noted to himself, rushing over to catch John from falling over and slowly, when crowded warmly by firm libs, John regained the strength to keep his eyes open for longer intervals. He didn't know how, but Sherlock kept his mind running; kept sleep further away.

Once he had deemed the doctor capable of holding himself upright and stepped back to the window, Sherlock babbled his response feebly. "It's nearly the same one each time. You die and I cannot save you."

John's fingers ran over his face before settling them in his pajama pant's pockets. "The violin was nice," he sighed, a smile once again taking residence of his face.

"Helped me until you awoke, though I do wish you would return to bed, John. You don't appear to be doing too well."

John's typical plead slipped from his throat persistently. "Not until you do. I'm awake for your mental health."

The violinist's head tilted to the side just slightly while his lips pulled back into a soft grin. "Fine, but I'm not guaranteeing any process on my side."

"As long as you know I'm safe," John heartened, eyes crinkled at the corners, " and stay in bed, no electronics and such, I will allow it."

"Why wouldn't you?"

The doctor's eyes closed for a brief moment, but opened before he responded. "Not now, Sherlock. I'm too tired to think," he blankly stated, body subconsciously making its way through the kitchen (and nearly taking down every piece of furniture with it, or until Sherlock stepped in and held him firmly around the waist).

Once he was guided to the bed by his flatmate, John snuggled against Sherlock's chest, somehow managing to place himself on top of the man. Normally just the mere sight of this would startle the detective and fluster him, his thoughts not yet softened by physical affection, but tonight was a brief exception. Almost everyday was an exception with John, it seemed. With John's breaths rising and falling continuously on Sherlock's chest, he was reminded of his _living, breathing_ blogger. For John, simply having the violinist there allowed the him to sleep. They both gained from each other's losses without even knowing of it.

After a long while of swirling patterns into the doctor's back as he soundly slept, Sherlock picked up John's book on the bedside table and read positively about a boy who lived.

* * *

_**A side note: **Sherlock and John were bickering over John reading such trivial and impractical books so an M!A came and forced Sherlock to read it. Quite odd, yes, but I had to abide. _


	10. Chapter 10: An Encounter of Epiphanies

_I was asked to write my view on the reunion. Here it is._

_-Also, I've gotten a request for the boys in a chocolate shoppe. I will be starting it when I get a chance!_

_Thanks for reading ^-^_

* * *

John took his time down the steps. It wasn't a client since the ring was held for far too many seconds (plus, he'd stop accepting them a few months back- his concentration couldn't keep up with both cases and depression) and it wasn't Lestrade or Mycroft because they'd never show up at a time such as this. John was one of the few to be awake at two in the morning; his thoughts were battling with him once more. As his fingers clasped around the chilled door handle, he took a deep breath and then pulled quietly. By no means was he prepared for what was standing in the entry way.

It was on a chilly night that Sherlock decided to return. He'd been staying at Mycroft's for a few months just so he could keep an eye on his blogger, seeing that Mycroft had lenses to the world. Sherlock had known early before his fall that his feelings for John were softly slipping into something of much more substance, but he, the great detective, couldn't put a finger on it until he was pacing throughout a park in November. It hit him like cement on earth, filling his lungs almost as if he couldn't breathe or move. All those quiet realizations of John had now broke free from their cages in the back of Sherlock's mind. How funny, that you could begin to love someone without being in their presence. A few moments later he stood in the comforting doorway, aching eyes now relived to see John in person, no longer watching him from behind a screen at Mycroft's estate. He'd lost just about fourteen pounds, his hair was etched lighter, and his eyes were swollen from the day's struggles, but it was John. John Hamish Watson, Sherlock's one and only friend and flatmate. Best friend, actually, he noted while witnessing John's jaw practically falling out of place, his eyes narrowing, and hand gripping more firmly on the door. "Hello, John," Sherlock practically stammered, which was a rare thing for him to do as he shivered from November's chill.

"But- you're- I'm just-" John tried, fingers now releasing the door while he took a disbelieved step back in anguish and grief. It was all so sudden and only logically he could only be dreaming. The images played once more in John's head- Sherlock's body falling to it's doom off of Bart's, then his bloodied skull and pulseless corpse. It couldn't be real, it was only reasonable for him to be hallucinating once more, for he did take to that seemingly often.

Being simple as usual, John's thoughts were easily read by the violinist- almost like a book. "You're not imagining things this time, John. I'm here. I'm real. And I'm sorry," Sherlock began, his sea greens locked tightly onto John's- now faintly watering -sky blues. Cautiously, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder, but it was nothing against John's attempt at finding reality.

In an instant, John's aching knuckles pressed not so lightly against Sherlock's jaw just before his opposing fist did the same to Sherlock's chest. _This will prove it, _John thought while punching the living Sherlock, _this will stop the hallucinations, those bloody bastards. They can't come when they're not real._

Although Sherlock had expected this on his heightened journey over, the jabs came with a sudden rush of lost emotion, tumbling over the savaged detective with a cry of dreaded enthusiasm. Sherlock allowed John to continue for a few more moments, the strikes not causing any serious pain or cuts, but he then suddenly pressed John against the wall, hands clenching fists, restraining the delusional man with a passionate, vanished, and guilty gaze. Once both men had panted heavily for a decent amount of time- John suddenly realizing that this was indeed his Sherlock, not another one of his misconceptions; Sherlock trying to cage those thoughts consisting of his new emotions just long enough for them to have the conversation he'd imagined far too often -John sputtered his theoriries out loud without much organization while gawking at his flatmate. "You.. Why? All these months and you couldn't have clued me in the slightest? You couldn't have written me a letter? It's not that hard…to…to save me from all this unnecessary pain. I..I almost killed myself, Sherlock. I almost followed your lead cluelessly and…and you didn't do anything?"

"You know I wouldn't have let you-"

John words had more of an aggressive edge to them as he pushed back against Sherlock's restraining frame. He wasn't intending on hitting him anymore, but by no means would John allow himself to be controlled any longer "You did! You let me suffer! You saw my pain and sat there and watched! You did nothing, Sherlock!"

"It was necessary, John. You were in danger," Sherlock managed, now bewildered by his mind's limited capacity when dealing with John's unseeing exasperation all while aiming horribly to cage his own intentions.

"No, no you didn't!," John yelled, knocking Sherlock forcefully out of his way and charging with a hustle back to the stairs. In a swift catch of the sleeve, though, Sherlock was able to bring the fuming doctor back in front of him. As sea greens infiltrated the sky blues, Sherlock's lips thoughtlessly pressed against his blogger's.

At first, John's adrenaline pumped body was startled at the moment that Sherlock's lips moved against his own devotedly, but soon, without any thought or precautions, he matched the violinist's pace and curled his arm around that- once pulseless -familiar frame. It all happened so fast and both John and Sherlock mentally agreed this as their caresses parted; John staring at Sherlock in sudden disbelief and Sherlock mumbling his apologies to the doctor. "It's fine," John hummed back, not realizing the significance in his words as he said them, "it's all fine."


	11. Chapter 11: A Nonvirtue and Its Effects

Sherlock was located on the sofa, his slender body practically spilling over the edges as his hands perched up near his mouth. John, on the other hand, had taken work off to be with his silent companion and was brewing cups of tea in the kitchen. His few attempts earlier proved futile, seeing as the detective didn't respond quite well when John decided to fumble with the violin or play the telly at a level of volume considered a ridicule. Even Mrs. Hudson stopping by didn't lessen his ways when bearing in mind that she aimed to chat with him.

Once he had finished with a the tea, John sauntered into the sitting room with two cups in his hands and placed them both on the table adjacent to the couch. Now sitting on the floor near Sherlock's head, the caring doctor began talking.

"I do trust that we have both agreed you can hear me," he began, raking his hand through his hair while his lips pressed in thought of what to say next.

His mind fumbled for the most decent words before settling on some he believed worthy of the violinist to hear. "Sherlock, I understand why you are doing this, and the necessity of it all, but for me may you communicate again? I'm becoming quite lonely without the bickering," he chuckled, "and I'm certain you long for more of my complaints once more"

Other than a very slight crook of a smile, there was no response from the detective. John sighed.

He clutched his laptop from the coffee table near him and began typing before reciting words off of chance webpage. Somehow, he had a bit more of hope in this attempt than the others and decided if it didn't work, he'd merely leave the great detective to vocalize on his own. "The words 'solar system' refer to the Sun or a star and all of the objects that travel around it. These objects include planets, natural satellites such as the Moon, the asteroid belt, comets, and meteoroids. Our solar system has an elliptical shape and is part of a-"

But then he was cut off.

"John, do you really think I'm that ignorant and brainless?" Sherlock scoffed, eyes narrowed in accusation at his blogger.

The soldier's face shot up with the maximum glee a grown man could have. Oh, how he'd desired for these rubbish, stubborn comments. "Finally," he breathed in exclamation while joining Sherlock on the couch. His firm arms wrapped around the gangly frame of his friend and he pressed his nose against the man's shoulder. There wasn't much excess room on the sofa now, not to mention the lack of it prior to John joining the detective.

With his chin resting atop John's head, Sherlock remarked softly, "I was here the whole time. You do know that, hmm?"

The doctor grinned as he nodded. "Just worried," he mumbled into the fabric of the violinist's dressing robe.

A smile, despite the fact that John couldn't see, appeared on Sherlock's lips- bright and joyful. "You always are," he murmured, swooping down to kiss the doctor swiftly on the forehead.

* * *

_I know, I know, this is not the chocolate shoppe. I have a long drive coming up this week and I'll be working on that and another prompt then. They both should be uploaded soon. Thank you for reading! ^-^_


	12. Chapter 12: A Mistaken Realization

After visiting Primrose hill where Sherlock had pocketed his samples and debated with John whether cloud gazing was entertaining or not, they headed down a street a few blocks from 221B. John could tell Sherlock was becoming a rather hungry- slightly irritable and repetitive –and made a rash decision to turn into a chocolate shop before heading back to the flat.

The violinist knew all too well of the doctor's intentions and interrogated him on the matter. "We have food at home, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would make you a cup of tea if you don't want to yourself. You just went to the store a few days ago; there's no need to purchase more food."

John sighed, pocketing his loose fists and peering at the man. "You're the one complaining that everything is dull. Don't you desire for variations in your day?" he asked with an eyebrow raised while he peered around the shop. It smelled like chocolate, obviously, but there were hints of other ingredients. The soldier was almost certain that if he'd ask at that moment Sherlock would be able to correctly list the other aromas sufficiently. Watson really had no intentions on going in the bloody shop until now. He'd seen it and it looked inviting- that was all there was to it.

"Fine, fine. Just get your chocolate and let's go. I have an experiment waiting," mumbled the detective as he began pacing around the shop. The doctor was glad no employees were out front yet.

John found it humorous that Sherlock, after all of his deductions, could not realize that they were in the shop for him. He was the one that needed food, he was the one slowly melting- no pun intended.

John did, however, find it somehow charming that the detective was peering at the labels as if to say: _Why would you call it Cashew Delight? …Incredibly tedious for a chocolate._ With a disapproving scoff, Sherlock set his eyes onto his blogger, patiently pleading in silence to head back to the flat.

The doctor placed down the box he was examining with a sigh and turned on his heel. "Yes, very well. Let's get you back home then," he muttered, already out the door, bells ringing his exit.

It only took him a mere second to realize his actions before Sherlock's long stride followed after the doctor's down Baker Street. "John!" he called out, ignoring the pesky civilian's glares. "Wait!"

John shrugged off the violinist futile attempts and marched upstairs, tossing his jacket on the chair in the sitting from as he did so. "John," Sherlock said at last, turning the man around by pulling on his elbow gently. "We can go back. I was being a git. You were trying to help." He rambled on, reminding the doctor cantankerous quickly of the scene in Baskerville, before John took in a deep breath and let the situation go. It wasn't important, really, was it? While Sherlock babbled onwards, John reached up and kissed his lips swiftly before heading to the kitchen. "I'll make you some tea," he said and it _wasn't _a question.

* * *

_Written on request for ConsultingAngelWarlock. This took a bit long and didn't end as I planned, but it's Sherlock so what can I say? I have a bit with Anderson I'll post here in a day or so. Thanks for reading, dear._


	13. Chapter 13: A Problematic Homicide

The tension was rising in the room, yet only a selected few were able to realize this. John still, after three years, couldn't fathom how one man could upset Sherlock in so many ways. How could such man lack the focus in which was meant to be on the murder? How was it possible that he couldn't tune Anderson out? The detective _did_ have a prestigious mind, for Christ's sake.

The bantering had erupted just as the violinist sauntered into the crime scene. "Why is he here?" beckoned Sherlock, shooting a death glare at Anderson while the other man returned a snotty grin.

"Because he's on the job," Greg called out to the detective who was walking farther away at a quick pace. John stayed behind. "You really need to go out and get him a muzzle for these days," remarked Lestrade just slightly over his shoulder so the doctor could hear him.

John's arms remained at his sides as he contemplated the odd of finding a muzzle for humans. "I really should," he nodded slightly, gaze focused on Sherlock inspecting the body meters in front of him.

The detective began to beam in the time that he spurted out the relations of the evidence and the murder. "It's so simple," the man practically sang, "it was the brother!"

"Isn't it always the the brother?" Greg mocked, a loose chuckle forming in his throat. Sherlock, upon hearing this from the other side of the room, bore his eyes unto the D.I. As if to say: _I can hear you_. Lestrade flicked an eyebrow up in competitive response before being beckoned into another room by sergeant Donovan, leaving only the flatmates and Anderson in the room. Alone. John quickly became worried.

Anderson's nasally declaration didn't help the situation.

"We talked to him. It wasn't the brother. He didn't do anything," he tattered from the corner of the flat.

The doctor had to admit that Sherlock's response was calm compared to what it could have been. Slightly _too_ calm, actually. "And what in your idiot mind proves that?" The detective's lips were pursed as he stood up from his previously crouched position near the body.

"We investigated him. He had no suspicious actions whatsoever."

"And are the murderers ever suspicious?" cooed Sherlock, who was now making his way over to where John stood silently- closer to Anderson. "Clearly he wasn't dubious!"

"It's improbable for the brother to kill his own sister."

Sherlock muttered his next words faintly, nevertheless them being still audible. "Bloody idiot."

Anderson's eyes locked on Sherlock's. "What?" he asked confidently, arms crossing over his chest.

"You heard me. Pretending to be deaf could be quite offense to some," the detective continue, creating a stride towards his opponent with his hands buried in his coat pockets.

Anderson ignored his comment and continued persisting with his opinion. "We've tested everything. The brother didn't touch her!"

"And are you positive?" Sherlock gritted through his teeth, inches away from the ignorant man's face, his long frame looming the over the Anderson. His stature was different than John's, the violinist now noticed. John stood more confidently, although he was a few centimeters smaller than Anderson. He never let Sherlock's height overpower him or his thoughts. Anderson was different. Anderson was adaptable in this matter of emotions and the detective used this flaw against him.

"Your mother left at a young age; your father was an alcoholic. Being an only child, as a teen you turned to drugs for sympathy of your situation. Someone..a teacher possibly..talked sense into you and turned you around before university. After scraping up the money for it, you spent five years there and met your wife, whom you've recently found you don't care much for when considering you and Sally have become a bit more, hmm, serious. Now if you'd please just accept that the victim was shot by her brother on the night of the sixteenth I'm sure all of this would go quite a bit smoother than it is now."

"Sherlock," John breathed, not requiring any more words to explain every distinct one of his thoughts. With just one look in the eye, Sherlock knew. He'd gone to far.

Anderson was breathing heavier now, his eyes firmly narrowed on the violinist and his fists clamped at his sides. He was obviously angered and Sherlock understood it would not end well.

A clenched hand flew through the air, but the detective was too quick. He ducked, sending a flailing Anderson past him, heading towards the stairs. He wouldn't have fell if Sherlock didn't trip him, but being the ignorant prick he was, he did and he sent the man tumbling down the flight of steps.

Lestrade, Donovan, and a few others came running once they heard the fall. "What happened?" the D.I. panted, looking down at his colleague at the bottom of the stairs, clearly wrecked.

John quickly glared at the violinist as if to say _we'll deal with this later_ before responding casually, "He was just leaving when he fumbled with his footsteps and fell. Sherlock and I tried to help, but it was all too late."

After a few more moments of conversation, the members of Scotland Yard descended the flight of stairs to help the trembling man while the detective and his blogger (a quite unhappy one) fled the scene on the fire escape. Even though he managed to escape the fists of Anderson, by the time they got back to 221B Sherlock had acquired a few more bruises than he left with.


	14. Chapter 14: An Inquiry of Government

_M!A to ask Lestrade about his relationship with Mycroft._

* * *

Lestrade had ordered the dynamic pair into his office on Wednesday evening simply to finalize the completion of the recent case in regards to the bomber. "So- That's it?" the D.I sighed once they had explained everything, pushing himself back into his chair and kicking his feet up all while his observation was perched onto the detectives.

"I stopped talking, didn't I? Don't be impractical; you know how it aggravates me," prattled Sherlock just before John hushed him by muttering his name. With a quick jab to the ribs by the doctor's elbow, the violinist knew what to say.

"How often are you in contact with my brother?" asked Sherlock, one eyebrow resting upwards in a knowing glare as he scoffed at Greg.

Lestrade was taken slightly aback. "Once a week- give or take," he responded hesitantly, his legs now withdrawing from their comfortable place upon his desk as he folded his arms across his chest, "he wants updates on you."

Sherlock shooed off the comment with his hand and shook his head. "No, but that isn't true. He's the government; he lacks the need of spies. He only wished for John to do so because he has no cameras inside our flat."

"Are you stating-?"

"No, not entirely. I'm asking you delicately- not insisting it. Some of the inhibiters on our shared blog have gotten a bit curious. "

Both Sherlock and Greg knew solely what they were talking about without even mentioning the subject. When Lestrade had come over for Christmas a few years prior, Sherlock had made a snide remark of Greg's wife and her affairs. Soon after in Baskerville the D.I. was seen without wedding ring. Mycroft had, as expected, began asking for updates before the commotion, but without a decent reasoning behind doing so. Because of this Lestrade felt slightly comfortable when staying at Mycroft's estate (in the guest room, obviously) while he sorted things out with the divorce and found himself a new flat. Their relationship, on the other hand, was still hit or miss- hence Sherlock asking about it, yet the detective knew if he put in the effort he could easily deduce the answer for himself.

Greg held up his hands in defense, eyes wide and mouth parted. "No, it's not that- at least I don't believe so. I haven't even seen him as much now that-"

"Then what is it?" Sherlock interrogated back, leaning forward just slightly.

John sighed, peering at his shoes while the two men argued, one rather sheepishly, at each other as if they were toddlers fighting over the same toy. The doctor couldn't quite fathom how many occasions Sherlock had began quarrels with Scotland Yard's employees that month- especially the one resulting in Anderson tumbling down the steps. Each time Sherlock seemed to have embarrassed his blogger even more so, nevertheless a doubt it was even possible at times.

"If you have so many questions, ask the man yourself!" bantered the D.I, triggering a few heads to turn around in various parts of the office (the glass didn't do anything for privacy, nor sound).

Sherlock rolled his sea greens. "As if that would be reasonable," he muttered, hands now locked into his pockets while one brushed the edge of his scarf which was shoved in there as well.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to argue with-"

The detective cut him off. "Oh, but you already are."

Lestrade stammered now through his frustration. John could tell he was trying to keep calm for the sake of everyone else, but his facade was slipping through his grip. "We're friends. I'm not sure if anything is past that, but when I finally do I'll be sure to inform either you or John. Thanks for the case."

With a shaky breath, the D.I. lead the pair to the door of his office and hauled them a cab once they got to the street.


	15. Chapter 15: A Mindful Tranquil

_Here's some random fluff for you on account of my happy mood. I thought we could all use some after the panic called the-26-seconds-that-ruined-my-life._

* * *

John slipped two fingers into the handle of his cup as he ambled to where Sherlock was seated (well, sprawled actually- the man could never just simply _sit_) on the couch. When he appeared and the violinist took care to notice, Sherlock shuffled downwards just a bit so John could sit near his head. It was an old, worn habit that neither of them seemed to notice anymore. John would say it was traditional if he were to take observation.

When Sherlock continued with his thinking, John surveyed the television curiously on the opposing side of the room. It was, as always, Doctor Who in which they were watching. How the detective could actually stand- and apparently enjoy -it baffled John, but he made no comment about it in fear that these happenings would be lost.

It was somewhere during the middle of the episode when John mindlessly slipped his finger's through Sherlock's hair as he drank his tea delightfully with the differing one.

The detective did notice this, but had yearningly grown familiar with John's touches. They were always soft and subtle, yet full of spreading warmth that made it difficult for him not to mention. In a chance moment, Sherlock nudged John's thigh slightly and managed to prop his head up onto his blogger's legs- silently…no words needed. _Thank you for being here_, it said. They seemingly could go days without talking. Simple motions spoke louder to the pair than words did.

John's watch flickered from the telly to Sherlock, a smile present within his eyes and on his slim lips. It was small, his smile, but it was all the violinist needed. It was his response. _Sometimes I think I enjoy this more than you,_ it said.

After eyeing John endearingly a bit, Sherlock closed his eyes, and damn it, slithered away to his thoughts. It wasn't the fact that his detective was no longer paying attention to the television, but the fact that his concentration was removed from his blogger in which made John frustrated. And it was all unknowingly because Sherlock was nowhere near his palace. Sherlock's thoughts were perfectly trained on John's fingers through his curls, John's deeps breaths against his cheek, John's warm body temperature seeping into his cold frame, John's slight shifts as he kept a gaze on him, John's… bloody hell- John's everything. And yet the doctor was put off marginally, but he smiled at his violinist nonetheless since you couldn't help but do that when watching him. _You're very infectious_, it said. And Sherlock didn't even need his sight to know.

They continued like that for a decent sum of time- John's fingers sifting through Sherlock's hair carefully, Sherlock focusing on John's every movement- until the detective spoke up.

"When did this _really_ start?"

It was mumbled, buried in that sodding and affecting baritone of his, and it was engulfing. John swam in the sudden noise, his head bobbing up for air as he tried uselessly not to drown in the said matter and (now) opened eyes.

The question struck somewhere in his mind. Was the violinist referring to their current actions or was he referring to their relationship in general? Deciding that Sherlock would be more imposed to ask of the second, John swallowed and focused gaze on the fireplace. "I don't believe it actually did. Nothing in reference to us ever has a beginning," he responded, this time with words- even if they were superfluous.

But Sherlock didn't counter with a remark or a witty intellect or a fact- he glided his long and slender fingers around John's wrist and drew the doctor's arm upon his chest, the tea filled mug snug against his shirt. _Let's not end this_, it said.


	16. Chapter 16: A Selfless Injury

Sherlock Holmes was a bloody, cantankerous git and John Watson could only help but to sigh at the matter anxiously. Earlier that day they'd been running all about London, but somehow that was seemingly normal. The detective had nearly been killed, and somehow even _that_ was also seemingly normal.

The suspect had been clever, oh how clever. He'd set up a trap- one even the brilliant Sherlock couldn't see through. This supposed "therapist" had killed a list of patients (Sherlock believed it _was_ one way of solving their problems efficiently- John glared at this) and plotted out clues for the duo to track. Eventually reminding him of Moriarty, Sherlock blindly followed these trails and with the particular oddness of their everyday rituals an empty warehouse wasn't too skeptical.

There'd been bombs… and large ones at that. It had all been in an instant, but Sherlock noticed something a second before they went off and only had enough time to protect John. Luckily for the soldier it worked, but Sherlock, on the other matter, wasn't as lucky. John, who had only resulted in a few cuts and burns, was left with the delicate side of injuries. Sherlock, that idiotic prick he was, terminated the case with a leg nearly blown off and a fractured elbow. Good thing his flatmate was a doctor and had a cane he could spare.

John's fingers fumbled as he brewed tea for his companion. He'd bandaged everything he could up earlier and only was allowed let time do its job now- there was nothing more he could do for Sherlock. This said detective was crumpled up on the bed, moaning complaints as John finished with the tea. The doctor suspected the injuries would last about a month, but seeing as Sherlock could miraculously heal in no time, he wasn't so sure.

Sherlock clutched onto his mug with shaking fingers himself when John passed it to him before slipping in bed. The doctor had vented his feelings about Sherlock's actions prior to this and had no need to now- to be honest, he was actually quite sorry he'd done so. With that miserable look in his detective's eye and that frown which took up only half of his lips as he thought over his selfless decisions could pierce John's heart…and it already had done so months ago when he came home from his 'death' unexpectedly.

"How are you feeling?" John asked warmly, a soft but hidden grin vague on his mouth.

Sherlock sipped at his drink with his functioning arm before he spoke. "Obviously, John, by the state of my conditions you must be able to tell that I am not 'good', nor 'decent', nor 'okay', so I would hope you wouldn't expect me to say such things. Seeing as I butchered my leg, I'm in pain and would really hope you-"

Usually at that time John would cut him off by talking himself, but he attempted a different approach. Carefully, as to make sure he didn't harm his flatmate or spill his tea, he moved closer to his detective and pressed his lips firmly and appreciatively onto Sherlock's.

"Thank you," he cooed, "for what you did."


	17. Chapter 17: A Banter of Fire and Kindle

It wasn't even a special night. No holidays, no birthdays, no case to celebrate the closing of- no, tonight was a celebration of life.

Although Sherlock was sitting down this time rather than standing like that one New Year's and John was on his laptop, the violin music protruding from detective's fingertips danced around the room like glitter. He would be too ashamed to say it was a serenade, oh he would, but Sherlock was playing for John this time. It wasn't for his thoughts to slip into their selected pathways, nor entertainment through parched boredom, nor nightmarish insomnia. The music was for John and it swirled around him like fire and kindle.

The were sitting across from each other- John's gaze steadily focused on his (apparently slow, according to the violinist) typing and Sherlock's to the wall just behind the doctor's head. They spoke no words, for the action was becoming so dull and tedious and why was it ever invented anyway? Oh, yes; now he remembered.

Sherlock continued with the piece he'd composed himself for a long moment. John had become somewhat alert and closed that bloody computer of his, full attention on his detective.

They bantered soft looks at each other every now and then. Sherlock would almost gawp at John, his lips pulled back into a sloppy smile. John would return this look with his own chuckle. His eyes would crease at the corners, thin lips would stretch attentively, watch falling to the ground in light-hearted amusement.

These playful mockeries continued well past the music; somewhere in the middle of it all Sherlock stopped playing and his violin dropped next to him in the chair with a droning "thud".

He stood up, the detective, and moved across the sitting room with just two of his elegantly drunken strides, breathing in John's face before he could process a proper thought. As their foreheads bumped and nudged the other, their noses occasionally doing the same, the bantering looks were united.

John titled his head to the side.

Sherlock smiled wittingly.

John raised an eyebrow at this.

Sherlock didn't care the slightest.

And with a single second of movement their lips crashed and John tasted like jam and toast and toothpaste and it was all so wonderful even without the music or cases because it was all _John. John, the one he cared about. John, the one he loved._


	18. Chapter 18: A Muddled Comprehension

_Announcement:_ If you haven't yet noticed, I have uploaded the first chapter of my potter!lock series, An Innocence of Sacrificial Spells! Johnlock is promised in later chapters ^-^

Again, thanks for reading dears.

* * *

"Sherlock," gasped John as his eyes flew open. Almost two years later and the image of his best friend falling over and over and over again still haunted him in his dreams.

It took a few moments for his sky blues to adjust to the darkened bedroom, however they didn't alter fast enough. The soldier fumbled around numbly for Sherlock's frame and he muddled with the sheets in the process. And then the found it, the detective's hand left harmlessly open, just next to his left knee.

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and immediately checked for a pulse. Sure enough, it was there: Slow and steady and proving a most supreme point. Sherlock was still alive. He was no longer a corpse. And he was okay.

The detective woke then and as groggily and unhappily as he appeared (he _was_sleeping for the first time in days), he sat up and slipped an arm around John's waist. _I'm here. Look at me. Feel my living warmth_, it said.

With a long, sought out exhale John closed his eyes and leaned against Sherlock. He rested his chin on the shaggy man's shoulder and interlocked his fingers around his chest. John was able to feel the breathes coming and going from Sherlock's exceedingly warm body and all of his subtle movements… And he was alive. Sherlock. Was. Okay.

Moving his free hand up to massage John's temple, Sherlock sighed a small sigh that said: _You'll be all right. This is typical for humans dealing with post-traumatic stress_.

John bit the inside of his cheek, illogically persisting that his flat mate wasn't real, but he couldn't help but to deny that fact with all the evidence in front of him- Sherlock had taught him well. His fingers clutched tighter onto the violinist's dressing robe. _I believe in you_, it said.

And Sherlock nodded because he'd always known.


	19. Chapter 19: A Resolution for Family

_Soooooo, John went away to Harry's for the weekend and returned Monday night. Sherlock wasn't too happy about the whole affair. Here's how it all went down._

* * *

Sherlock tapped his toes. Tossed his sight around the flat. Wiggled his ebony fingers. Clenched his teeth. Screamed. Yelled.

Consulting detectives weren't very patient.

John had been gone for over a three says now. Sherlock hadn't seen him for over seventy-two hours and he wasn't taking it well.

He hadn't eaten since Friday night, nor slept since that morning. Without a case to keep his mind running, his body began to shut down. Or tried to, at least. Sherlock forced it to do what he wanted because it was _illogical for it to do things other than his command_.

He sat recklessly in John's armchair as he fidgeted with every limb possible. The violinist was practically wearing holes into the flooring. It wouldn't surprise him if he actually did.

John said he would return home in the next ten minutes. But Sherlock couldn't wait that long.

He jumped to his feet and strode to the kitchen. Maybe tea would help. It always did for John.

Sherlock began the process of fumbling with the kettle when it became all too much. His gait stretched out back to the sitting room. To their bedroom. Back to the kitchen. To the washroom. To their bedroom again. The detective ran all about the flat, occasionally tossing over and tripping on some objects as he did so.

But one object was not like the others.

It was warm, and soft, and comforting. It was wrapped in a jumper and dark jacket and smelled like home. Because it _was_ home. There, standing in the middle of the kitchen after Sherlock had run into him blindly, was John Watson.

Sherlock peered upwards with those magical and crystal and silver and blue and glittering eyes of his and John could see it. In an instant they shifted from hazy and cluttered to one thing: joy. Joy because John was back; joy because he did not have to suffer again. And that joy slipped into John's sky blues too. Instantly.

The doctor dropped his bags and clutched his arms around Sherlock's lanky frame for dear life. Sherlock's hand latched onto John's back and the other gripped onto his hair. John was home. He was okay. Harry didn't hurt him. John was home.

Sherlock had never imagined, not once in his lifetime, that he would become so dependent on someone, but he had himself to blame. _He'd_ been the one who jumped off that sodding rooftop, _he'd_ been the one to put them both into pain and _he_ didn't like that. Not one bit, but John made that better. He always did.

John's head tucked under Sherlock's chin while he smiled a sloppy and goofy grin – almost similar to a drunken bloke's - and he couldn't stop it. No matter how hard he tried, the smile would not wipe off his face and it wouldn't for another two hours.

They remained in that embrace for a handful of minutes until John stepped back. He looked Sherlock dead in the eyes, continued with his childish beaming grin, and said, "Sherlock Holmes, you're a git."

The detective almost looked loopy, though technically he was love-struck. Not in a sappy, cliché way, but in the most sincere and natural manner possible. Because John was his rock, his core, his life, his everything and from that first moment in Bart's it was destined. No matter the style of relationship they had, John and Sherlock were soul mates.

The violinist shuffled up to the doctor slowly, something in which he never did, and placed his hands under John's jaw. "And why is that?" he asked in a whisper, eyes trained exactly on John's.

"Because," John said, his thin mouth still pulled back into a smirk, "you think you missed me more than I've missed you. You're wrong."

Sherlock pressed his lips onto his blogger's once before replying, "I've never thought being incorrect would become so satisfying."


	20. Chapter 20: A Bundle Sickened Pleads

M!A: Sherlock ignores a bad cold (and John's advice) to work a case. Eventually he becomes feverish enough to begin behaving strangely.

* * *

He was walking backwards (and sometimes speaking backwards too, if one might add). He was wandering aimlessly around the flat -and humming to himself. Playing the violin with the wrong hand. Asking odd questions. Demanding he wear one of John's jumpers. Whining for a cat. Telling Mrs. Hudson her dress looked nice today.

Sherlock Holmes, the impeccable and wonderful and cunning and amazing detective-man, had a cold.

He claimed, when asked by other than John, that Anderson had coughed on him when they were bickering if a string of lights could kill someone or not; however, in reality, he'd given it to himself by a error in an experiment a week earlier involving pears (why the fruit was prominent in his cold, John didn't know, although either way Sherlock wasn't reacting to it the way most people did… but then again nothing was ever _normal_ with the violinist).

"John Hamish Watson," he said, his voice cracky and deep and round. Could voices be round? Maybe, John didn't know, but Sherlock was full of exceptions. "Kiss me, John Watson."

He was standing - well, leaning – somehow against the fireplace mantle. The tip of his skull, Billy, nudged the nape of his neck. His dressing robe hung at odd perceptions, a leg of his pajama bottoms was hiked up to his knee, and his hair was sticking out of place with random curls dangling in front of his eyes and a wave stretching out over his ear. His eyes were wild then, with sudden flashes of both engrossing silver and frothing blue, and his fingers **_could not_** quit tapping against things… his thigh, the wall, John's shoulder.

"Aaah, no," John said in that what-do-I-do-with-this-git-now type of voice. His hands gripped to the top of his armchair and he looked down at the cushion as he spoke.

"Not now, at least. Not like this. You're filthy and disgusting."

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up. Disgusting? How _could_ he? "So you hate me," he said, although it was more of a declaration.

John, on their shared blog, had mentioned recently that he enjoyed when Sherlock was bored because he was incredibly childish and while he wasn't technically bored now, Sherlock was very… vulnerable. John, however, didn't like him like _this_ because he was extremely repetitive and not very realistic with his "deductions".

Sherlock pouted.

"Oi, not that again," John exclaimed, shaking his head in complete denial. He slowly made his way over to where Sherlock was, slipped his arm around the lanky tree's waist, and guided him to the bedroom. "You need rest, okay? Sleep will always help. Doctor's order." And with a slight nudge, John pushed Sherlock into the room and closed the door. Maybe forced actions would help rather than nicely stated opinions.

Ten minutes later, when John had just finished with the first page of his newspaper, Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen fully dressed in his suit and purple shirt. "I'm ready to go."

John peered out from the edge of the paper with a questioning look plastered about his face. "What the bloody-" the doctor began, but stopped short. It was no use. Everything he would say would go in one ear and out the other. Or maybe it would make its way through the Mind Palace first and only _then_ be forgotten. If he were to say 'No, you're not going to work on a case today. You're sick and acting like a toddler' it wouldn't help. Either way, John's words currently had no effect on Sherlock whatsoever. But he knew someone who might be able to get something across, even if the violinist _was_ acting strange.

John sat up and walked towards and then down the steps with Sherlock on his heels. He held the large, dark door open for him, hailed a cab, and paid the driver as the detective got in.

And then John told the driver Mycroft Holmes's address before returning to the paper back up in the warmth of 221B.


	21. Chapter 21: A Handful of Sleepy Sipping

There was a case, a rather establishing one at that, and Sherlock was worn from head to toe. Exhaustion constantly gripped ahold of his wrists and ankles, pulling him into a standing slumber, but being who he was and with the brain he had the shaggy violinist stuttered awake each time.

John watched all this with a hidden smirk and a sly chuckle.

He was tired too. His head was a mess with fingerprinting and DNA coding and maps of London and ingredients in types of quiches. It all spun around in that soldier's mind and was now (partially) useless – the case was over…through and through.

Sherlock held open the door to 221B with a shaky hand while John mumbled a scratchy "Ta," towards the violinist's direction.

They shrugged off their coats with impatient sighs and traveled somewhat towards the kitchen. John absentmindedly began the process of making tea. Sherlock disappeared into their room.

He returned seconds after John had placed their mugs on the table wearing his sapphire dressing gown. The doctor nodded in regards to the detective's change of clothing whereas the detective stumbled to keep his eyes open. What time was it again? And how long had they been up? Sherlock more hours than John, obviously, but both were exhausted out of their wits.

The sipped and slurped at their drinks (whatever would please them) in a thick moment of silence. Their actions were simultaneously rhythmic, as were their deep breathing. Almost one time or the other Sherlock would find John (or vice-versa) in the process of falling asleep and would be forced to nudge him conscious. It was a steady pattern of an engaging case night for them. It was normal.

When John finished with his tea, he stood up - a large scrape of lumber against lumber from the chair sliding alongside the floor - and shuffled to place his mug in the sink with the rest of their dirty dishes piled sky-high. That was normal too.

But John changed the plans.

Exhaustion did that to him sometimes.

He hobbled to where Sherlock was seated, cupped his fingertips along Sherlock's jaw, kissed him on the forehead, and then went to bed. He didn't care if Sherlock thought the action was stupid, sentimental, or any other adjective he fancied. He was just glad they finished the case successfully.

Once John had shut the door to their room, Sherlock smiled a large, sloppy grin.

Exhaustion did that to him sometimes.

And that was okay.


	22. Chapter 22: A Splitting Serpent

"John…"

"…John."

"John!"

The window was hitched open just a tad and a breeze tickled Sherlock's neck.

"John!" he cried once more.

John was seated on the couch, back facing the violinist, Union Jack pillow resting atop his ear. His eyes were squeezed fatally shut and his fingertips tugged at his hair.

Consulting detectives were a pain in the arse when you were trying to get some rest.

Exhaustion nipped and licked at the poor doctor's bones while a headache seeped through his skull with a groaning crack. His breath felt hollow and weak, his fingers too feeble to do mostly anything at all, and his legs as stiff as saplings. All he wanted to do was sleep for a bit – the pain might slip away then.

"John. John. John. John-"

Sherlock's rambling's continued onwards in the backdrop. And sooner or later, John was forced to give in. He contorted his body in staggered motions so he was facing his detective. He shot the man a sarcastic smile, straightened a back just a bit (an old habit from the military he still had: always stand guard; whether you wish to or not), and rubbed his palms against the tops of his thighs. He sucked in a stunted inhale. "What is it?" His words fell out of his mouth like crunchy leaves on an autumn's day, but they functioned nevertheless. With John, they always did.

Sherlock squinted at his blogger and a smirk crept onto his face. His eyes glistened dimly. "The window's open," he muttered into his knees, for his head was somewhat propped up against them.

"Yes. And what about it?"

Sherlock glared rudely from across the room. "It's open. Fix it."

John took another deep breath. He stood up, walked slowly towards the window, and pressed his hands upon it. He shut the window.

And on his way to the bedroom, he smacked Sherlock forcefully upside the head... he wasn't going to be the only one in 221B with a headache any longer.


	23. Chapter 23: A Tale of Rainbows

_For Phantom of the Black Pearl, as per request. The boys are a bit out of character in this, but it was so worth it. Very crack-y._

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

It wasn't necessarily a disguise because, well, as much as John instinctively denied it still, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson _were_ very much gay (or for John bisexual). It was simply a matter of acting of their role in public.

Lestrade had figured it out on his own – he'd seen John grab Sherlock's hand and kiss him when he got into a cab once – but as for the others, they were clueless. Surely Anderson and Sally and Dimmock could sense the profound fondness they had for each other, but they didn't quite understand _how_ fond they were.

It was Sherlock's job to make sure acting gay didn't cross with their actual queerness in public. Sherlock wasn't a very physically affectionate person… whether in public or alone at 221B. He'd warned the D.I. of their plans and told him to notify the others, as he felt essential. The duo only had to hope that the people at the Yard didn't take the situation the wrong (or right) way.

Disguise really _was_ an art form.

"John, where's your cat jumper?" Sherlock bellowed from their room.

John sighed, placed down the paper he was reading, and stood up from his chair. "Are we really doing this now?" with his nose twitched up as it always did when he was frustrated or angered, he excaimed, "we're not leaving for another hour!"

"The disguise will take time. We must look the part. …Plus, you simply don't want me to see this bloody jumper and I must inform you that I already have. I've only misplaced it."

"Jesus," the doctor muttered under his breath. He stepped into their room and buried a hand in his pockets. The other popped him up next to the doorframe. "It's in the bottom left drawer but you will _not_ tell the Yarders it is mine."

"If I must," Sherlock said.

In an instant, the violinist unbuttoned his (purple) shirt, threw it onto the bed, and slipped the cat jumper on over his head. John watched him curiously the whole time.

When he was done, Sherlock's eyebrow raised at John's actions. "She must have been drunk when purchasing it," he said, pulling and tugging at the sleeves and hem, which fit him impeccably. "Your sister got your size critically incorrect."

At first, John couldn't help but to smile at Sherlock in the salmon colored jumper with cat heads embroidered around the neck line, hem, and sleeves and the rainbow which danced around his chest, but soon he couldn't contain himself – John Watson practically fell to the floor in laughter.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Just you. You and _the rainbow cat jumper_."

Sherlock sneered and turned his back.

"Oh, come on now," John slurred with a smirk, "it's not that bad."

Behind those rambunctious curls of his, the tips of Sherlock's ears grew pink. "It's for the case, John. Do remember that."

"Yes. Right."

John stumbled back into the kitchen with a few more high-pitched, wheezy, cackled chuckles to brew himself a cup of tea as Sherlock finished in their room. The crazed detective man came out a few moments later wearing a pair of John's trousers that clung to his thighs, knees, and shins. The poor pants could only manage halfway down Sherlock's legs – they weren't made for someone of that stature or height.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak; however, John beat him to it with a grin spread from cheek to cheek.

"Yes, yes. I know. For the case, you git. But you do look very… provocative."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air once to ignore John's statement. "I've placed what you will be wearing out on the bed. Change. Now," he said.

And once John finished with his tea and placed the mug in the sink, Sherlock tsked, "You take forever."

John rolled his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson paraded the London streets wearing a rainbow cat jumper, ill-fitted trousers, a "Save the whales!" tee, and pink loafers.


	24. Chapter 24: A Playful Sun-Fall

_Recently, on obviouslydeduced, the boys purchased a little black Bombay kitten (Sherlock very unwillingly). I received an M!A where Sherlock had to react in some matter to the cat toys John purchased. Here it is._

_By the way, I can't tell if I'm excited for S3 or not. It's a kill to a lot of the fics and such out there (like reunion ones or post-Reichenbach based ones), but it's more footage and awesomeness in general. What are your opinions? I'd love to hear 'em. c:_

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm back," John called from the steps. He'd grown used to carrying up the groceries alone, grown used to Sherlock continuing whatever the hell he was working on, but he hadn't grown used to seeing Sherlock at the top of the steps, which this time he did.

The man clasped the doorframe on both sides with his hands. He didn't offer to help John with the load, nor give him a bit of thanks for going out to buy food for the week in order to keep them both alive; he merely stood there – taking up the bit of light 221B shuffled into the stairway.

His words slipped from his lips in clunky breaths and his eyes were wide with fear. "I thought the hound was terrifying, but this… this _beast_ is a monster!"

"Calm down, Sherlock. It's just a cat," John said as he pushed past the violinist and started to unload his purchases. When he was finished, he tossed a new laser pointer in the detective's direction. "Here, use that."

Sherlock looked at him in disgust… almost like he was a stain on a clean shirt… and leaned closer so their foreheads were touching. "For what?" he spat.

John stepped away and grabbed his laptop, sat down, and began to type. Possibly an article about how Sherlock was acting due to an animal in the flat, the detective presumed. "Point it at the wall. She'll like it."

The cat, as he spoke of her, meowed from her spot near Sherlock's violin. He shot her a rude look. She purred.

As John titled his new post "Opposites Attract", Sherlock tore open the plastic wrappings for the cat toy and fidgeted with it for a bit. And soon enough, a small, red dot scurried the length of the wall. Gladstone's eyes were open wide and she dashed to where the laser was pointed. Sherlock peered at it himself.

This lasted around an hour. Sherlock amused himself by watching a creature frantically busy herself with merely a light, while John entertained himself by writing the whole commotion down.

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped purposefully. Gladstone hissed.

"Bored!" he moaned, sulking over to the couch where he settled with a dull 'thump'.

John stood, rocked on his heels, clasped his fingers together, and said, "I bought more."

Sherlock wasn't on the couch for very long. He too stood and made his way to the kitchen where he continued with his experiment, which had _very abruptly_ been interrupted. "I don't care," the detective responded as he swished around some sort of chemical in a glass vial.

The doctor placed an automatic mouse on the floor and watched how every time it moved the kitten would pounce for it.

The funny thing was, Sherlock did something similar.

Whenever the mouse darted off this way or that, Sherlock would jerk his head towards the direction it was in, rather startled by all of its captivating nonsense. His eyes would settle deeply on it until he was sure it was finished and then he would continue adding more of that gaudy blue stuff in with the green, though the toy just went on and on and on. And so did the head jerking.

John chuckled. Sherlock really _was_ a cat.


	25. Chapter 25: A Really Terrible Joke

_I tried writing out of my block... and this happened. Sorry not sorry x_x_

* * *

"What's the difference between a baby and a trampoline," John said through a surplus of partially suppressed chuckles that filled his lungs.

Sherlock flung his head over the end of the couch, shrugged, and crossed his arms over his chest while saying. "I haven't the slightest."

And when Sherlock dropped his (very heavy, actually) legs onto John's lap, the blond sighed - there wasn't much he could do about it. "You cannot jump on a trampoline with cleats."

Sherlock froze… well his facial expressing did. His toes wiggled - the thing he generally did as he thought - continuously on John's lap.

John himself grinned and let a few chuckles loose. This would surely puzzle the violinist.

"That doesn't make any sense, John. You're implying that you can jump on children with athletic cleats, where as the phrase should really be 'You cannot jump on either', which would also cause the original statement to be changed into 'What is similar between an infant and a trampoline' or 'Do you want to hear a really terrible joke?'… in which case, no, not really."

John groaned.


End file.
